


Nobilis Oblige

by MilesHibernus



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale is a hedonist, Getting Together, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 15:18:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19478590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilesHibernus/pseuds/MilesHibernus
Summary: Clearly Crowley is the classic demon lover and Aziraphale's a shy virgin.Right?





	Nobilis Oblige

Angels are sexless unless they really want to make an effort. Aziraphale found that very convenient, as it meant he didn't have to worry about any of the slings and arrows a standard-issue human was heir to; he did not, for example, ever find parts of his anatomy taking an interest in the proceedings when it would be inconvenient.

When he did choose to make it, the effort was one of the things he simply _elided_ in his reports; while he felt perfectly confident that the encouragement of pleasure, intimacy, and affection was within his remit, he strongly suspected that his superiors would look at it all as falling under the heading of Lust. Heaven did not deal well with nuance—sometime fairly early on they'd gotten the idea that Hell was good at it, so being subtle had got mixed up with being Evil and everyone had seen where that led back at the Beginning. Nevermind that Hell was about as subtle as a tire iron to the head; it was the perception that mattered. He didn't even bother trying to invent phrases that described the activities without explicitly naming them; that kind of thing was more Crowley’s line anyway. He just lumped together all such activities under the heading of General Encouragement of Good Feeling and had done with it.

When you’re setting out to be an excellent lover, the ability to read minds is _also_ very convenient. Aziraphale always knew whether his prospective partners* really wanted to do whatever they were discussing doing, and furthermore he knew how they liked to do it and was happy to accommodate their preferences.* He’d learned over the years how not to read people _so_ well that it worried them, but no one ever objected to, say, an uncomfortable weight being lifted, seemingly by happenstance, before it became painful. Likewise it was hardly noticed that praise and other encouraging comments simply didn’t come close to the tender spots in the psyche, or that he never loomed over anyone who didn’t enjoy the looming. The human mind has great difficulty noticing what _isn’t_ there. Aziraphale just made sure that one of the things that wasn’t there was unpleasantness. Except insofar as one liked sensations which most would find unpleasant, which some people did.

Mostly he tried to show people how an encounter could be good, could leave everyone feeling better, even if it was brief and the participants never encountered each other again.* He always insisted upon the use of whatever protective measures were available*—though of course he could prevent disease all on his own, he wanted to encourage good habits—and was especially careful when engaging in activities that might in the natural course of things lead to giants in the Earth. He didn’t fancy explaining _that_ to Gabriel, Lust quite aside.

He assiduously didn’t think about how Crowley might be handling his Lust. Of course the demon had to do his job and it often meant that Crowley did things Aziraphale was required to not approve of, and (thankfully, rather less often) things Aziraphale actually found reprehensible. The scope for reprehensibility* was so broad in the arena of Lust that Aziraphale felt it was better all round to simply ignore it altogether. No need to endanger the Arrangement over something that couldn’t be helped.

* * *

Oddly enough, after the Apocalypse failed to happen, they spent rather more time together. Aziraphale supposed they’d grown used to it, in the eleven years of watching poor young Warlock for signs of a power he was never to develop. Besides, when someone’s been your only constant for six millennia, you begin to count on their presence. It was only sensible.

Less sensible was the way Aziraphale had found himself...watching. Watching Crowley’s hands, the way his graceful fingers wrapped around the stem of a wineglass; watching the way he moved, sinuous and strangely awkward but he never knocked anything over. Watching his eyes, obscured though they were by the dark lenses of his sunglasses. Of course Aziraphale could still see his eyes, for the same reason Crowley could wear the glasses at night, and there was something enchanting about Aziraphale being the only one who could see him clearly, behind his barrier.

Aziraphale supposed he had his lack of effort to blame for the fact that it took him so long to realize _why_ he was watching. It wasn’t as if he had involuntary physical reactions to clue him in. What finally did it was incredibly simple, nothing that hadn’t happened a thousand times* before; Aziraphale made a dry remark about a mutual acquaintance*, and Crowley, startled as always to be reminded that being Good did not preclude a sense of humor, had laughed at it. Watching him laugh, Aziraphale had thought, _He’s so beautiful._ And then _Oh_. And then _Oh dear._

* * *

All things considered it was _much_ lessof a problem than it would have been Before.

They no longer had to care whether their respective superiors would catch them doing things they oughtn't, since they'd both pretty much told those superiors to shove off. Aziraphale, however, had never before had occasion to spend a great deal of time with someone with whom he was in love. He cared for his short-term partners, and he loved them in the way he loved all God’s creatures, but _in love_ was not a state he’d ever expected to experience. It made him, in retrospect, rather careless about his watching.

One night after a dinner that had been marked by his mood getting steadily more foul, Crowley stopped the Bentley outside the bookshop, and Aziraphale was preparing to get out with his usual farewell when he realized that the demon was not looking at him. Instead Crowley sat rigid in the driving seat, both his hands still on the wheel and staring straight ahead, and Aziraphale hesitated. Before he could muster an inquiry, however, Crowley said tightly, “Sspit it out, angel.”

“My dear boy, I don’t know what you mean,” Aziraphale said, taken aback. He couldn’t think of anything he’d been reluctant to discuss.

At that Crowley did turn, his face set in a way Aziraphale had had cause to grow wary of over their acquaintance. “I’m not as thick as all that,” Crowley said. “I’ve seen you watching.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “I do apologize. I suppose I haven’t much experience with this sort of thing.” 

“What,” Crowley said, “ssort of thing.” There was obviously no question mark at the end of the sentence.

Aziraphale blinked, swallowed, and said in a rush, “With being in love. With you. Which of course it’s you, I’m hardly watching you because I’m in love with the postman.” He stumbled to a halt, but Crowley didn’t reply, and Aziraphale had to admit he was a little stung. One didn’t expect instantaneous, rapturous reciprocation, no matter how many Victorian novels one had read, but a _reply_ could have been pleasant. 

The silence stretched.

Finally Crowley said, “And what exactly do you expect out of being _in love_?” He twisted the phrase with scorn the likes of which Aziraphale hadn’t heard from him since they’d separately been sent to see who exactly had been talking to John Dee, and had discovered that it was no one, just an excess of imagination and a bit of help from psychoactive substances.*

“Well, nothing, if you don’t…” Aziraphale began, and discovered he was reluctant to utter the words _if you don’t love me too_. “That is, if it’s a one-sided...if I’m alone in my stronger feelings, I shall be more than happy to continue our friendship as it is.” 

“What if you’re not?” Crowley asked, curiously toneless.

A fragile hope sprouted in Aziraphale’s heart. “If I’m not...alone?” 

“Yess,” Crowley said. “What if I love you too, what then?”

“Then...I suppose we’d...do the things that people in love do,” Aziraphale said. “My dear boy, nothing could make me happier.” He paused, but Crowley said nothing. Finally Aziraphale asked hesitantly, “Do you mean that you _do_ love me?”

Slowly, Crowley nodded, and for a moment the new hope blossomed. “Get the hell out of my car, angel.” The tiny sprout withered and fell to ash.

“What? But Crowley—”

“Get. Out.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest and Crowley barked, “ _Now._ ” 

When he thought about it afterwards, Aziraphale could remember putting his hand on the lever, unlatching the door, and climbing out of the Bentley onto the pavement, his lips shut tight against the things he wanted to say. But in the moment it felt as if there was no transition between the curt command and standing there bewildered, watching the car’s tail lights recede at breakneck speed.

* * *

Three miserable days later, Aziraphale sat at his desk and wrote.

 _Dear Crowley_ , the letter began, in his most careful handwriting and on paper with such a high rag content that it might as well have still been fabric. It was the fifteenth draft—one through four were just to get around whether _Dear_ or _Dearest_ was appropriate, after rejecting out of hand any construction beginning with ‘my’—and he was determined to get through it without demanding an explanation, suggesting a meeting, or offering a defense. None of those things, in Aziraphale’s opinion, were properly contained in an apology. _I feel that I must apologize for my behavior. I should have told you of the change in my feelings for you as soon as I became aware of it. It was never my intent to press myself upon you or importune you in an unwelcome manner, but as I have so thoroughly succeeded I can only say that I am sorry. If you can forgive me, I will always be grateful. Please believe that I am at your disposal, and that I remain_

 _Yours,_  
_Aziraphale_

He hesitated, then signed the note again; the sigil flared, sparkled, and faded from human sight. Given the number of uses to which an angel’s Name, written in his own hand and given with free will, might be put, it wasn’t a _wise_ thing to do, but Aziraphale felt that in this day and age the odds were in his favor. There were only so many beings who would know those uses or how to demand them, after all,* and he suspected not many of them worked for the post.

He read the note over, folded it, and put it into the addressed envelope. His sealing wax was gold, with perhaps a touch more metal content than sealing wax bought in a high street stationer’s shop.* It took a few moments to gather the will to rise to his feet, and when he did he forced himself to head for the front door, rather than putting the letter in the shop’s outgoing post pile. With the amount of business he did, it might take days to accumulate enough post to warrant sending, and Aziraphale didn’t want to risk, as the Americans would say, “chickening out.” Not that he _couldn’t_ retrieve a letter, especially one with his Name in it, after it had been put into the post-box, but Aziraphale believed in the untouchability of the post in much the same way he believed in gravity—while it could be contravened, circumstances had to be dire indeed to warrant it and mere cowardice didn’t suffice. 

He marched to the door, pulled it open, and nearly barrelled straight into Crowley. 

Their mutual attempts at avoidance must have been comical, and ended with Aziraphale on the pavement and Crowley on the second step, each of them with one hand on the other’s upper arm. Aziraphale opened his mouth, closed it again, and proffered the letter with what he hoped was a look of polite resolve and not mute pleading. Crowley looked down at it and then back up, and said abruptly, “We’re not doing this standing in the street.” He turned on his heel, turned back to pluck the envelope from Aziraphale’s lax grasp, and walked into the bookshop looking as if he were going to the gallows and didn’t want anyone to realize he was frightened.

Aziraphale took a moment to collect himself and followed. 

By the time he reached the back room, Crowley was opening a bottle of wine. Aziraphale caught a glimpse of the label and drew a breath that apparently wasn’t as quiet as he’d meant it to be, because Crowley muttered, “We’re going to need a drink for thiss.”

“I might have preferred to save that vintage for a time when we’d be able to give it the attention it deserves,” Aziraphale said mildly. “Under the circumstances, however, I find it just isn’t in me to deny you anything.” 

Crowley’s jaw set a trifle tighter and he picked the bottle up. For a moment Aziraphale thought he was going to drink from it directly, but instead he filled the waiting wineglasses (that hadn’t been waiting a moment earlier) and took one with him to the armchair in the corner. With the reading lamp off Crowley was cast into shadow; the effect was rather less predator-lurking-in-the-darkness-to-strike and more prey-hoping-to-remain-unnoticed. Suspecting Crowley would prefer not to have this pointed out, Aziraphale sat himself next to the table and reached for the remaining glass. Normally whichever one of them had poured would hand a glass to the other.

Aziraphale took a breath he didn’t, strictly speaking, need, and said, “I’d be obliged if you would read that first.” The letter sat on the table next to the open bottle.

Crowley looked at the letter as if he’d forgotten it existed, and waved his hand. The wax seal released when he ran his fingers over it. He drew the note out as if it were ticking and unfolded it. 

The note was short, and Aziraphale was well aware of Crowley’s reading speed. He supposed he was gratified that Crowley was giving it full attention and consideration, but at the same time it wasn’t the kind of note that made the writer sanguine about waiting for an answer. He drank from his wineglass to keep from talking.

Finally Crowley folded the paper again and restored it to its envelope. He slid the envelope into the interior pocket of his jacket* and said, “That wass a real apology.”

Aziraphale suspected Crowley of having deliberately waited until he had a mouthful of wine. He swallowed hurriedly and said, “I’m glad that you think so. My de—Crowley. I feel as if there’s something else. Something I didn’t _do_ , but only...brushed against.” It was really quite vexing to be having such a conversation with someone whose mind he _couldn’t_ read. “Will you— _can_ you tell me what it is?” He paused, and sighed, and didn’t even try to stop himself from sounding plaintive. “It’s only that I hate that I’ve hurt you.”

Crowley licked his lips. “I sshould have realissed you wouldn’t know,” he said, and though his voice was commendably even, Aziraphale found the continued excess of sibilance worrying. “You’re innocent.”

“I _beg_ your pardon!”

“Not naïve, angel, _innocent._ You’ll believe it, you’d jusst never have thought of it yoursself.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, deciding to set the matter aside for the nonce, “my dear—I mean—”

“It’ss all right, you can call me whatever you like,” Crowley said.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said sincerely, and set his glass down. “In that case, my dear boy, I don’t understand.”

“I know.” Crowley sipped his wine. His glass was still essentially full, but then so was Aziraphale’s. “Sso let’ss walk through it, sshall we?”

Aziraphale said impulsively, “Crowley, you must know there’s nothing you can say that will make me dislike you.”

This did not have the desired effect; instead Crowley offered a smile that even for him was remarkably artificial, though Aziraphale didn’t see any of the usual undercurrents in it; instead of sarcasm, scorn, or repressed fury, this one looked a great deal like despair. The last time Aziraphale had seen such a look on Crowley’s face they’d both been sure they had mere moments to live. “We’ll find out,” Crowley said. “Now you said that we’d do thingss that people in love do. Tell me what you meant.”

“Ah, well,” Aziraphale said. This was not at all what he’d expected, but he was a quick thinker. “We’d spend time together. Go to dinner or to shows. Do things we like to do, together.”

“We do that already,” Crowley said, for the first time with something that sounded like real humor.

“I suppose we do,” Aziraphale said, and couldn’t help but smile. “Give each other presents, I suppose?” Crowley nodded. “Erm, well. Often people live together.”

“Ah,” said Crowley. “And when you live together, you ssleep together.”

“I don’t sleep,” said Aziraphale, “and you only do because you enjoy it.” Crowley bent his head to look over the rims of his sunglasses, and even though it was purely for effect Aziraphale was enlightened. “Oh. You didn’t mean _sleep,_ you meant we’d make love.” Crowley raised his eyebrows and Aziraphale made that peculiar noise that is usually transliterated as _hmph_. “Have sex, then, if you prefer."*

“I don’t,” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale turned that over in his mind for a moment. “They have a word for that these days,” he offered at last. “ _Asexual_.” But he was beginning to see the shape of their doom now, and he doubted modern terminology, however useful in general, was going to be of help in this specific case. And indeed, Crowley had begun to shake his head before the word was fully spoken.

“Doessn’t apply,” he said. “The problem iss.” He stopped speaking as if he’d uttered a full sentence and drank more wine in a transparent effort to gain time to compose himself. “Do you think it matterss to anyone in Hell _what I prefer?_ ”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale whispered. He set his glass down so as not to risk breaking the stem.

“Yess.”

“But my dear boy. You were their agent on Earth! You got commendations regularly, I’ve seen some of them."*

“All the more reasson for ssertain partiess to make ssure I’m not getting above mysself,” Crowley said. “And what better way than to put me below them?”

“I will kill them all,”* Aziraphale said, quite calmly he thought. In a way, it was just what he’d worried about, the being reprehensible; he’d only been wrong about the target. “But later. Right now...tell me what you need me to do so that you’ll know I’d never—”

Crowley gave him a look of withering scorn. “Do you think I’d be here if I _didn’t_ know that? You startled me, angel. That’ss all. As long as you didn’t ssay it I could pretend I didn’t know what it meant.” Aziraphale felt utterly out of his depth and the confusion must have shown on his face. Crowley sighed. “It took me three dayss to remember that not everyone who lookss at me that way is going to take what they want whether _I_ want to or not. I’m sorry.”

“You have _nothing_ to apologize for,” Aziraphale said, surprised at his own vehemence. 

Crowley smiled, wry. “Just as well, I’m rubbish at it.”

“Well, you are that,” Aziraphale said. He felt it was safe to take another sip of his wine.

Crowley’s smile faded and he said, “I need you to promise me ssomething.”

“Anything,” Aziraphale said.

“Promisse me you won’t try to sstorm Hell alone.”

The stem of the wineglass snapped.

Aziraphale was, as angels went, a gentle soul. Nonetheless he was still an angel, and a certain willingness to smite comes with the job, as it were. Also a certain possessiveness. He met Crowley’s eyes and watched them widen, and Crowley said hastily, “I don’t mean don’t do it, I mean _don’t go alone_.”

“I won’t go alone,” Aziraphale said. The wineglass, intact and refilled, settled back onto the table with a clink. “I would never deny you the opportunity.”

“You see, that’s why you're my angel,” said Crowley diffidently. While Aziraphale’s breath was still out of his reach, Crowley stood and set down his wine. He removed his glasses as he crossed the few steps between them, and took Aziraphale’s face in his hands. Aziraphale didn’t know what to do with his own hands; he wanted desperately to touch Crowley and didn’t dare. He sat as still as he could as Crowley bent to him and pressed their lips together. Crowley’s were cool, just as his hands were, but Aziraphale didn’t, couldn’t care. He parted his lips to Crowley’s gentle tongue and made no effort to stop the sound that rose in his throat.

The kiss went on for a small, blissful eternity. Aziraphale didn’t whimper when they parted, but it was a near thing. Crowley said roughly, “I can’t...no more than that. Not for now.”

“Oh, my love,” Aziraphale said quietly. He raised one hand to press it over Crowley’s. “That’s enough, and more than enough.”

“It might never be more,” Crowley said, and didn’t quite take his hands away before Aziraphale noticed they’d begun to shake. 

“Then it will never be more,” Aziraphale echoed, as matter-of-factly as he could.  
  
Crowley turned his back. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“Rubbish,” Aziraphale said. “How long have we been friends? Six thousand years.” He felt confident that Crowley would be able to sense the raised eyebrow, facing away or not.

“That’s low, angel.” 

“I learnt from the best,” said Aziraphale primly. “The—the way you’ve been treated, that began almost at once, I assume.”

Crowley nodded, “As ssoon as they saw the humanss do it.” He picked up his wine again and drank off most of it. Aziraphale refused to wince.

“Almost all the time I’ve known you, then. My dear boy, you can’t even say you’re not the person I fell in love with.”

“I don’t—I’m a demon. You’re an angel—”

“And we have a great deal more in common than either of us has with those we came from.” Aziraphale stood. He wanted to wrap Crowley in his arms, and possibly in his wings, but he settled for moving to where they could see each others’ faces again. Crowley’s glasses lay forgotten on the table. “This isn’t _new_ , Crowley. I only realized a few months ago but I’ve loved you...I think it’s why I was so upset when you first asked me for the holy water.”

“Piker,”* Crowley said fondly. “You kept the rain off me.”

And here Aziraphale had thought Crowley’d only break his heart the once this evening. “I can’t help but feel as if I’ve failed you,” he said, essaying a smile. 

“It’s all right, I knew you’d come round eventually.” 

“And all it took was the end of the world.” 

Crowley shrugged, expansive. “Didn’t end, did it? Nah, what really mattered was, you had to stop caring whether _they_ approved of you.” He flicked his eyes at the ceiling. 

“You just said—” 

“I _never_ cared. There’s a reason I jumped at the chance to go to the Garden. Well. Hard to jump with no legs, but you know what I mean.” But his face fell, and Aziraphale had to bite his lip. “Aziraphale,” he began in a tone that did not bode well for the rest of the sentence. 

“No,” Aziraphale said firmly. 

Crowley blinked at him, startled out of whatever rut he’d been about to run himself into, and said, “No _what_?”

“No, I will not listen to you denigrate yourself,” Aziraphale replied. “I have loved you for several mortal lifetimes and I’m not going to stop now. So you can stop trying to think up some terrible thing to tell me to make me love you less. _I love you_ , and I do _not_ give a _damn_ whether you think you deserve it.” 

There was a long pause, followed by a slightly shorter one. Finally, “Language, angel.”

Aziraphale smiled, and held out his hands. Crowley took them, and did not tense when Aziraphale raised their clasped fingers to his lips. “If you stay here tonight, will you be able to sleep?”

Crowley made no attempt to hide his skepticism. “You don’t even have a bed.”

“Of course I do,” Aziraphale said placidly, and it was true, though it wouldn’t have been a few moments earlier.

“I can’t sleep outside my flat,” Crowley said.

“Of course,” Aziraphale repeated, trying not to sound disappointed.

Crowley cleared his throat and went on as if he hadn’t stopped, “Because it’s not safe. I’d need someone to keep watch.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, “then it’s very convenient that I don’t sleep. I’ve never really understood what you see in it.” *

“There’s no sleep in Hell,” Crowley said shortly. “But let’s finish the wine, what do you say?”

“Capital,” Aziraphale replied. He thought perhaps they’d had enough serious talk for one night. He gave Crowley’s hands a last reassuring squeeze and picked up Crowley’s wineglass on his way to the table. While his back was turned, Crowley said, “I love you.”

Aziraphale smiled down at his own hands and said, “I know,” and poured while Crowley laughed.

* * *

That night, and many nights after, Aziraphale kept watch.

**Author's Note:**

> Note that this is based on the Prime series ending; in the book it appears that Aziraphale and Crowley just sort of keep doing their jobs, and no one in Heaven or Hell really remembers that the Antichrist was ever a going concern.


End file.
